


the word of your body

by voodoochild



Series: Bandverse [1]
Category: The Hour
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Cock Rings, Dom/sub, F/M, Femdom, Lix Storm is a rock goddess, Obsessive-Compulsive, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Polyamory, Randall Brown wanted to be the Scottish Eric Clapton but ended up as the Scottish Clive Davis, but it probably has to do with the astonishing amounts of sex they have, it's amazing what sobriety and SSRI's do for Randall, look when Em says OT-fucking-everybody SHE MEANS IT, seriously I'm not sure why they're so happy in this 'verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 17:46:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/624875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoochild/pseuds/voodoochild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Randall Brown is looking forward to ten hours of uninterrupted sleep and solitude before he has to go out and be the Grammy Lifetime Achievement Winner in the category of record production. He does not, upon closing the door behind him and folding his suit jacket over the hanger, expect to be greeted with an armful of very scantily-clad, very pleased to see him Lix Storm. (Bandverse AU.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the word of your body

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thatyourefuse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatyourefuse/gifts).



> So, Em has graciously allowed me to play in her sandbox - because she knows it gets her femdom-y Lix/Randall porn - and thus I've written her this for her fandom stocking. She owns the concept, I just hold a time-share in some of the goings-on. I've stolen the title from a song from "Spring Awakening", so Duncan Sheik owns that.
> 
> Takes place in the same universe as Em's [a new art for the people (you and me)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/570696/chapters/1022280), though this is much, much later in the timeline and is a stand-alone. Alludes to events in the 'verse proper that haven't happened yet, but basically - Lix is the rockstar bassist for The Hour, Randall is their producer and has been hers for years, everyone's sleeping with everyone, Randall is the toppiest top to ever top (except when it comes to Lix), Randall's Rolling Stone cover [looks like this](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_meiy9rFWkd1r2xpibo1_500.jpg), bad shit still went down in Spain, and the bet involves them being in the business 30 years and never receiving recognition.

He could sleep for a _year_.

Five cities in what amounted to two and a half days. Prague for a recording session, then to London for Graham Norton, New York for the East Coast Grammy junket, Chicago for a launch party, and finally, Los Angeles for the Grammy ceremony. Which isn't until tomorrow, thank heavens, because he thinks if he doesn't find a bed soon, he'll collapse. He can just hear his publicist now - Sissy's fingers clacking over her Blackberry, telling him "normal people sleep on airplanes, Randall" and "I refuse to reschedule you on Craig Ferguson tomorrow because you've fallen and hit your head on something from exhaustion". 

It's also been a surprisingly good couple of OCD days. Normally, he'd have been ritualizing, tic after tic because it flares up with stress. He'd gotten through Prague with only a minor break to sit in one of the conference rooms and repack his travel case. London had been short, just a taxi to do the show, a taxi back, then a Luvox on the plane to New York, even though he wasn't going to be sleeping. Press junkets tend to be trigger minefields, so he had Sissy space them out as much as possible, let him have ten minutes between each interview to relax. He'd expected to hit an episode in Chicago - loud music, lights, the press of people - but he hadn't needed to stay at the party long. 

And now, L.A. for the actual Grammy Awards. He's looking forward to ten hours of uninterrupted sleep and solitude before he has to go out and be Randall Brown, Lifetime Achievement Nominee in the category of record production. Chateau Marmont is just the thing, Jeffrey-the-concierge handing him his bungalow key with a nod and taking his case to the bellhop. Unlocking the door has never felt like such a relief.

He does not, upon closing the door behind him and folding his suit jacket over the hanger, expect to be greeted with an armful of very scantily-clad, very pleased to see him Lix Storm.

Christ, she's in the sapphire set - La Perla, one of her very few posh-girl remnants (she used to saunter around in the eighties wearing thousand-pound lingerie underneath ripped jeans and grimy tank tops, it drove him utterly mad and still does) - and a pair of truly stunning heels. She presses him to the wall, purring as she reels him in by his tie and kisses the breath out of him. And it's Lix, just Lix, and he can't do anything but groan wholeheartedly and wrap his arms around her waist. His lip is stinging where she's bitten it, her mouth breaking away to press little bites down his jaw. She sucks a mark right where his collar hits, and his head falls back against the wall.

"Whatever did I do to deserve this?"

She laughs, rubbing against him. "I missed you, darling."

He has to smile. "That was becoming apparent."

Her mouth is back on his, slick and lush, tasting of the whiskey he's long-since given up and the coffee he only recently had to give up (SSRI's in concert with caffeine is a very bad combination). He savors the secondhand taste, his hand rising up to cradle her jaw. She huffs in frustration, strung-nerve tension still in her, and pulls at the knot of his tie. 

"You have been gone for two weeks. I have done nothing but rehearse and play nursemaid to four squabbling bandmates. Even the sex has involved refereeing. Get out of your clothes or I shall be forced to take drastic measures."

And while he normally wouldn't mind her version of drastic measures - she likes to peel him out of a suit by her teeth - he can feel his hands itching to rebutton his cuffs, feel the anxiety in the pit of his stomach at the disorder she's already inflicted. He takes a deep breath, and she shifts a hand to his back, rubbing in the telltale it's-all-right-do-what-you-need-to-do circles. They're helping, as is his silent mantra ("you don't need to fix it, it's fine the way it is"), and he opens his eyes to familiar blue.

"No need for that. I'll take care of my suit - though I warn you, if I get within the vicinity of the bed, I will be useless. Forty hours on airplanes, I could strangle Sissy."

Her hand continues the circles as she extricates herself. "Then let me do the work. I promise I won't be cross if you fall asleep on me."

The thought is undeniably appealing, and he kisses her gently while unbuttoning his waistcoat. 

"Make yourself comfortable, then."

She toes off her heels haphazardly, smirking as he reflexively lines them up next to his own shoes. Pads back to the bedroom and beckons him through the sliding doors, balcony open to the warm California air. He has to close and open the doors, one wasn't open enough, and by the time he's turned back to face the bedroom, Lix has sprawled over his bed and is watching him. 

"Did you see your Rolling Stone cover yet?" she asks, kicking her feet in the air and resting her chin on one hand.

Waistcoat unbuttoned, bottom to top, folded atop the dresser. Tie hung on the rack, fingers running over it three times. 

"No," he says, wrinkling his nose. "You know very well I never look at those ridiculous things."

"Oh, you really should have," she purrs, raising an eyebrow. He tugs his shirt out of his trousers, six separate pulls of fabric, and starts on the bottom-most button. "It's hit the newsstands."

"Lix, it's a magazine cover of _me_. No one's going to care."

The shoot had been excruciating, the photographer apparently being ignorant of one of the worst-kept secrets in the business and attempting to get the hairstylist to give him "bedhead" or something ridiculous. Sissy had very quietly pulled the man aside and explained that we don't touch Mr. Brown, nor do we mess up his appearance. The bastard had asked him to wait before shaving, they needed to test the light, and of course they went and used _that_ as the cover shot.

Her eyes narrow, and oh, does he ever know that look. That's her "I will thump you if you dare contradict me" look. 

"Darling, the public has spoken, and they're only saying what I've known for years. You are an utter silver fox, and that cover makes you look _so_ fucking delectable."

He's sure he looks ridiculous, half out of his shirt, blinking behind his glasses at her. "I shall have to take your word for it."

She rolls her eyes, deciding not to press the point, and he finishes unbuttoning his shirt. Folds it and places it in the laundry basket, his vest following it, and Lix clears her throat. 

"Come over here."

He pauses. Weighs the need to finish undressing with the probable reward he'll get if he complies and lets her remove his trousers. One breath. Two. 

He's standing beside the bed before he realizes it, Lix reaching out to lace her fingers with his. He lets her pull him onto the bed, ends up on his back with her straddling his hips, affectionate smile wrinkling her nose. She leans down, presses his wrists to the bed, and he can't stop the helpless roll of his hips. 

"All right?" she asks, and he nods avidly. It has been a very long time since she's done this - since they've done this, in these specific roles and not in combination with anyone else. "Good. Stay like that for me, hmm?"

He'll never get over how well she knows him. He likes being pinned down by her, but she knows he needs the choice of having his wrists physically free. If he keeps them there, it is his choice, and it will make her happy. If he cannot keep them there, then she will pin him in punishment. Either way, she gets what she wants, and that is something he deeply appreciates. His wrists stay where she's left them, on either side of his head, and she slides his glasses off, depositing them on the bedside table. Her fingers run over his chest, nails pressing delicately into the skin as she works her hips restlessly against his, shamelessly demonstrating how soaked her knickers already are.

"Fuck, sweetheart, just like that. You just stay right there, let me take care of you. Let me - *oh*, there we go, almost there. Should I suck you off? Would you like that?"

"You," he pants, "have an astonishingly - _ah_ \- short memory."

And her laugh vibrates all the way down, makes her throw back her head and arch her back. "Not an answer, Mr. Brown."

He wants to raise his arms, pull her down sharp against him. Wants to get her bra off, aesthetically-perfect though it is, pinch her nipples between two fingers the way she likes, that makes her shiver. Wants to press fingers to the wet silk between her legs and tease her clit through it. He _wants_ , but he curls his hands into fists and throws his head back on the pillow. 

"Christ, please - anything. Anything, Lix."

"Anything? Oh, darling, you know better than to promise me that. I could decide to suck you. Could work you up until you begged me to let you come. Or I could take those trousers off and ride you. I told you, I'd do the work. Would you let me slide all over you, nice and easy? Would you turn over for me, let me fuck you until you're a wreck? That is what you're promising when you say anything, you know."

And she's been pressing kisses to his face and neck as she talks filth, sucks marks into his neck and collarbone, nips gently at the lobe of his ear. He's rocking against her, hard and pressed tight to his belly. He can't think, can't speak, he just wants her, anything and everything she'll give him. Christ, it really has been a long time, usually it takes longer to knock him this far down, this far out of his own head - takes a firmer hand and Lix's iron control. It must be the exhaustion, and she'd have banked on that when she planned this. He doesn't care now, though, just arches into her, digs his hands into the sheets so he won't move them. There's a droplet of sweat working its way down her collarbone he wants so badly to lick away, but no. He's not allowed to move. 

Lix leans down, wraps her hands around his wrists, balancing her weight on them and it just - it's perfect. It's absolutely what he wants, and her voice comes low and fond near his ear. "I would like an answer, Randall sweetheart. What, precisely, do you mean when you say 'anything'?"

What he means is _don't give me the choice_. What he means is _take what you want_.

When he doesn't answer her, she releases one wrist and snake-quick, closes her hand around his cock. Squeezes just firmly enough that he hisses in pain, then gasps dizzily as she does it again. Her hips shift, stomach muscles bunching, and he can smell how wet she is. He thinks, mind gone hazy with pleasure, that he'd really like to go down on her later. He'll probably pass out when he comes, but after some sleep and recuperation, he intends to pay her back.

" _Talk_ ," she growls. "Open your mouth and talk. What do you want?"

It trips the switch, words tumbling out one right after the other, and he can only really register every fifth one. 

"Stop making me think; you always do it, you make me think when I don't want to. I want it to stop, and I want it to go on forever, and I want you any way you'll let me. Use me, don't worry about making me come. Want you to come, want you to do whatever you have to. Just tell me to do it."

Lix shivers, bone-deep, kisses him deep and drowning like she never wants to stop. Tears her mouth away with a sob.

"Oh *god*, you - you are astonishing. Do you know what you sound like? Spain, fucking Spain, that time in Madrid. I haven't seen you go down like this in years. Has it really been since then?"

"You," he rasps, his head jerking to the side and his chest heaving for breath. "Just you. Can go under, but I don't trust anyone else for it. Let me?"

She runs her fingers through his hair, nails scratching at the back of his neck, and bites down hard on his lower lip. Constantly touching him, pain-pleasure-hard-soft-too-much-not-enough. He knows this approach, in the back of his head where his dominant side has been contained, uses it himself on Lix and Bel and Hector and Freddie. Every time, he forgets how susceptible he is to it as well, that he can writhe and pant and beg just like they can. That no matter the past, present, or future dynamics he tries to orchestrate, if Lix puts her hands around his wrists and her mouth to his neck, he turns into a shaking mess as easily as they do.

"Go on," she murmurs against his skin. "Drop for me. I've got you. And I know just what I intend on doing with you."

It's - it's a wreck, after that. He barely gets his breath back from where she'd pulled his hair before she pushes his trousers and pants off him and wriggles out of her bra and knickers. He arches and shoves up against her as she balances herself astride him, teases him with the slick heat of her. His control is nonexistent, can't stop himself from hissing through his teeth at the slow, shallow drags of wet, hot flesh. Can feel it build, he's going to come far too quickly, and sudden, vicious pressure around his cock has his eyes flying open. 

That absolute beautiful _bitch_ , he thinks, as he gasps up at her. Where in the fuck was she hiding a cock ring in that outfit?

She grins at him, sharp and filthy, and grinds down against him. "Told you, darling, let me do the work, hmmm? You just stay right where you are, you're going to be just perfect for me, aren't you? Let me come all over you as many times as I want?"

"Yes, oh, _yes_ ," he hisses, caught between the breath-stealing heat of her and the merciless grip of the cock ring. "Lix, _please_."

She pays no attention to his pleas, moving in precisely the manner she wants, slow and teasing up and down the length of him, grinding deep and filthy when she's fully seated. He loves her like this, would love to be able to simply ask or order her to do it - sadly, if she goes down, she's not very pliable. Lix goes quiet and still if she goes down at all. Him, though, he's on overload, colors bright and sounds echoing in his ears, every slight shift of her hips driving him higher and he doesn't know how long he can stand it. The pressure around his cock is intense, and it just goes up to eleven when Lix hits the rhythm that he knows will make her come hair-trigger around him. He grips the sheets, hands shaking and voice cracking, and Lix's nails dig into his back as she bucks sharp and intent, first-orgasm hard.

Her voice is a low growl, makes him shiver and arch into her tight heat. "Good - oh, darling, you're so good for me. I think you deserve a reward. You - you can move your hands. Go on, yes, on my breasts, wherever you like."

He can't get enough of touching her, brushes his thumbs over her breasts to make her shiver desperately against him, fits his hands along the curve of her waist to guide her movements. He holds her down deliberately, short motions that set her off again, and she bites at his shoulder as she comes hard and shaking against him. Her mouth is open, panting against his, that little whine to her voice she gets when it's almost-too-much. Not that he can argue with her on that count, there are tremors shooting down his arms, across his back, and he's fairly sure that not even the cock ring is going to stop him from coming if she keeps doing _that_ with her hips. 

"I can't -"

She eases off, sits back on his thighs and kisses him delicately, stroking down his back. Soothing him, pulling him back from the edge. "Breathe, Randall. You can. You're going to get me right to the edge, right where you are now, and then I'm going to let you come. Do that for me?"

He nods, utterly unable to speak, and she sinks back down with a gasp, legs shaking where she's balanced astride him. His pulse pounds in his ears, and he can feel himself grow harder inside her, desperate to spill out. Frantically, he slides a hand between them, finds her clit and strokes her in time with their thrusts. He builds speed, the pads of his first two fingers skidding through her wetness as she throws her head back and fucks him harder. He's watched her with others, and he's always loved this part - when she goes frantic and focused, hips snapping and back arched, because she's always beautiful, but she has a ferocity to her that he never, ever gets tired of. Her cries go ragged, and thank god, that means she's close. She raises up, thumbs the release on the cock ring, and shouts as he twists his hips and pins her to the bed. 

A dozen strokes, if that, and he comes hard enough to curse. He keeps his hand where it's doing the most good - she'd kill him if he moved it - and makes her climax a third time, her limbs wound iron-tight around him. And it hits him like a sack of bricks, how exhausted he is, eyes burning and chest heaving and a pounding in his skull that doesn't go away. He shifts to the side, and she smiles fondly at him while curling up beside him. 

"Go on, pass out. I don't mind."

He huffs out a laugh, pulling her arm to wrap around his chest, and she settles with her head resting in the hollow of his shoulder. "You're astonishing. And thank you."

"Well, it's hardly a trial-" she starts, but he's already slipping into sleep.

He wakes up eight hours later to find her in an immaculate Armani suit, tie already askew, humming a Leonard Cohen song. Apparently she intends upon keeping her end of their nearly twenty-five year long bet.

In retrospect, he really should have seen this coming - she lives for disrupting his plans.


End file.
